Recollections
by XxMildredxX
Summary: After Reichenbach, Sherlock's Alzheimer's mother visits John and shows him old photos and videos of Sherlock. She's convinced her son is not dead. John just thinks she's mad. Three years later, he regrets not having listened to her. Oneshot. Angst. Fluff.


**WOAH WOAH WOAH WOAH! HANG ON ONE SECOND! DO MY EYES DECEIVE ME? COULD THIS POSSIBLY BE...**_**ANOTHER STORY?**_

_**Okay, just some clearing up here guys. This is going to be the last piece of writing I do for the Sherlock fandom. I've said goodbye to everything. To fanfiction, to Tumbr (and trust me, that wasn't easy). I've got exams and everything. So I ought to be concentrating.**_

_**If anyone has any question as to where my other stories have gone to, just send me a review ***_cough cough shameless review whoring cough cough_****_*_** and I can explain eeeeverythiiiing. I mean it. Everything. There's a reason why I had to delete some of those stories.**_

_**Anyway. Hope you enjoy. It's crap, like my usual stuff, but it's just a bit of fun.**_

_**For Sophie- I expect you to keep my stuff in good condition when I die. Who knows when I'll come back for a visit.**_

John had taken to just sitting in their..._his..._flat, staring at nothing, curled up on the sofa.

It seemed fitting, as it was all that was going through John's head recently- nothing.

Not one single thing. Numb, his mind unhelpfully supplied. _Shock, _supplied the doctor. _Grief, _supplied his friends.

His _other _friends. The ones that just didn't understand. _They couldn't understand, of course_, John thought with a sad little snort; they were idiots. Practically everyone is.

John's eyes ached as they welled up again. If it wasn't numbness, it was crying. Always fucking crying. The crying seemed to be triggered by crystal sharp memories of- of- of _him. _Memories of cases, and take-out, and Bond nights, and crazy experiments, and billowing £1300 coats, and cab rides, and lat nights chasing criminals.

John sniffed noisily, and buried his face in the arm of the sofa, inhaling the smell of coffee, formaldehyde, and cigarette smoke. His throat constricted.

It had been a week since the funeral. Thirteen days since he had returned from the Continent, being held by the shoulders by Mycroft, who was steering him towards a flat that was now empty, and having regretfully comforting words put into his ears.

There was a knock on the door, and John's ears perked up. Maybe it was Lestrade, he thought hopefully. He liked seeing Lestrade. It gave him a link between his own miserable life and the life before- before- before the "incident".

He heard Mrs Hudson give a surprised "Oh!" at the visitor, and then the sound of a woman: "Hello, dearie! I came just to pop by!"

John sat up straighter, his brow furrowing. He had heard that voice once before, at the funeral. But surely his mind deceived him...

"Mrs Holmes," Mrs Hudson was saying, as the door shut, "Shouldn't you be getting home?"

"No, dearie. I just want to see him briefly."

John had met the lady who had managed to birth the Holmes brothers at her youngest's funeral just a week ago. _"Quite batty," _Mycroft had informed him. _"Doesn't remember one day to the next. I doubt she fully understands what is going on at all. Shame- she was cleverer than us all when she was younger."_

John had not known whether to sympathise or envy her. The fact she did not realise her own son was dead, or the fact she would not have to face the pain of knowing that he would never again pick up the violin that was gathering dust in the corner, or save the day by solving another crime...

"Mrs Holmes! I'm sorry, but Sherlock isn't here!" Mrs Hudson said urgently. "You must go home."

The creaking on the stairs did not diminish, and John sat up properly as the door to the flat was opened, and Mrs Holmes shuffled in. She had an arched spine, and wore sensible shoes on her small feet, with a floral pink dress and a thick coat. Her face was framed by grey curls, and her eyes were shiny, accompanied by a small smile. She held, in the crook of her arm, a large bag that seemed to be very heavy.

Mrs Hudson was behind her, looking at John deploringly. She knew he did not like to be disturbed.

He gave her a small shake of the head, to indicate it was fine. _It was all fine._

Mrs Hudson sighed, and retreated back down the stairs, as Mrs Holmes shuffled further into the flat, dropping the big bag on the coffee table.

"John, darling, be a dear and make us tea?" she asked, looking up and giving John a wide smile that was so achingly familiar.

John wiped his eyes hurriedly, and went into the kitchen to make this strange woman a brew. He picked up his forgotten phone from the kitchen table, preparing to send Mycroft a text to come and collect his Alzheimer's mother.

"I wanted to just have a nice chat, John," she said, her slightly croaky voice coming through.

He blinked. In some ways, he wanted her gone. He wanted to sit and wallow. He couldn't be bothered to look after any more sick people, even if this was the mother of his best friend.

In other ways, he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to cry with her, even if she was mad, and tell her how much he had loved her son. Because, honestly, she would be the only person who would understand, or _could _have understood at some point in her life.

He put some teabags into a teapot, and got out a tray with some sugar, milk and biscuits, and two matching teacups, startling himself with this sudden newfound energy and purpose he possessed. _That's what happens to you if you sit alone for too long, _he admonished himself, _you lose your mind. Lose sight of what's important. _

He came back into the living room. She was sitting in _his _chair. The low-backed dark grey one. Somehow, even in her pretty pink dress designed in the 70s, she still managed to retain the regal quality _he _had when he had sat in the very same chair.

In her lap was a very thick photo album.

John placed the tray down on a small table, and pulled it over so it was reachable, before sitting down opposite her, in his own chair. He clutched at the Union Jack pillow.

She surveyed him intensely, blinking too often to be normal, but still managing to pin him down with eyes that were identical to Mycroft's.

"I'm not mad, John," she whispered.

John said nothing. He couldn't even remember how she knew his name. Probably due to all the gossiping at the funeral- so many people had assumed he was in a romantic relationship with...

"I wanted to talk to someone," she continued, her voice cheerful and upbeat. "Mycroft's such a boring person to talk to."

John gave a half-hearted smile which she returned in tenfold.

"He gets it from me! Now, his father, however! Mr Holmes was so different to me and Mycroft. Mycroft used to get so annoyed at his father's antics. And then, when _Sherlock _came along! Poor Mycroft, didn't know what to do!"

She chuckled jovially, and John's heart clenched. She was just an old lady who wanted to talk about her son.

"I'm sorry," he said, after clearing his throat. He hadn't spoken for days- his vocal chords were out of use.

"What for?" Mrs Holmes asked, confused.

"For- for," John gritted his teeth, "for Sherlock. I'm sorry for your loss."

Mrs Holmes' eyebrows knitted together. "For Sherlock? Why on earth are you sorry for Sherlock? He's such a happy little boy!"

John choked back a sob. She was completely deranged.

"I'm so glad he's found a friend, John. We sent him to school, and it ruined him. Nobody understands him. Except you," she said it in such a pleased manner, John couldn't dare to contradict her. He noted that she was talking in the present tense.

She reached out and poured them both a cup of tea, spooning liberal amounts of sugar into her own, and a dash of milk.

"I want to show you this," she said, and beckoned him over. He hesitated, before getting out of his armchair, and pulling over the rickety chair from in front of the window, where the laptops were, and put it by her side, seating himself. "I want to show you his birth."

She passed him the huge photo album, then sipped from her tea.

He took steadying breath, and opened it up.

_Sherlock Holmes _it said in the front page. _1976-_

She had not put in the year of death yet. John felt more tears sting his eyes.

He flipped onto the first page. He instantly recognised Mrs Holmes, but infinitely younger, in a hospital bed, with a man who somewhat resembled Sherlock, especially in the eyes and mouth, crouched next to her. A small, red-faced baby was apparently screaming in her arms, covered in cloth. It didn't stop the parent's from grinning, though.

Mrs Holmes wasn't looking. She was selecting a biscuit from the tray. John flipped onto the next page.

There were several pictures here, and seemed to span about two years across the double page.

"There's Mycroft," Mrs Holmes pointed out her oldest son, who had to be around seven years old. He had a very grumpy expression on his face, pointedly ignoring the infant in the cot next to him. "He was not pleased one bit about his new brother."

She let out a small giggle.

"And here he is holding him for the first time," she pointed to the next picture. Sherlock was visible here, and he wasn't nearly as ruddy as he had been before, just a faint pink colour.

"B-but he's blonde!" John said in amazement.

Mrs Holmes let out an even throatier laugh. "Funny, isn't it!"

She turned the page. "First birthday! Oh, we had so much cake! And everyone came!"

Sherlock had grown (John smiled sadly at how chubby he was), but his hair was still a platinum blonde atop his head. His slanted eyes were taking shape now, above two very round cheeks.

He had cake in two hands, and was sitting on Mycroft's lap. The ginger of Mycroft's own hair clashed magnificently with his brother's.

The next few pictures weren't nearly as happy as the previous scenes.

"He developed whooping cough," Mrs Holmes said, her usually gratingly cheerful tone dying slightly. "We were pretty sure he wouldn't make it. Mycroft went spare. Threw tantrums and sulked and starved himself. Said he wouldn't eat until Sherlock came home from the hospital."

John raised his eyebrows, trying to imagine the Mycroft he knew doing the same.

There were some pictures of Sherlock in an incubator, with tubes up his nose and hooked into his white skin. He was skinnier than before.

"Then he pulled through, and I'd never seen Mycroft so protective before. Insisted the maids and nannies washed their hands every five minutes. Oversaw the medicine being administered."

There was a picture of Mycroft standing next to a cot again. This time it was in a bedroom painted blue with ducks printed along the edge of the walls, and this time, Mycroft was peering over the edge of the cot like he was watching the son of God himself take slumber, such was his intensity.

"Then he grew up," Mrs Holmes continued. "Started walking pretty soon. Started talking far too early. First word was '_no', _of course. She pulled the pages faster than before, one after another, and John caught glimpses of more momentous moments of his genius; First few steps; Sherlock with an icecream in hand at the seaside, grinning excitedly as it smeared across his face; Second birthday; Sherlock throwing a sobbing tantrum whilst Mycroft roared in laughter at something that had been funny over thirty years ago; Sherlock in a pair of shorts and a plaid shirt and a pair of buckle up shoes, whilst sitting in a swing, being pushed by his father, a shit-eating beam on his face; Third birthday, with Sherlock clapping delightedly as his older brother fed him spoonfuls of jelly; Sherlock at the park, chasing geese in little red wellies, his hair much darker now; Fourth birthday, and even more jelly, this time being thrown at Mycroft; First day at school and Sherlock with his book bag; First certificate which commended Sherlock for his ability to read and write so well; Fifth birthday, where Sherlock and another boy and another girl his age sat around a table with a cake with five candles on it, his face ballooned up as he blew them out; Sherlock having his hair cut, and his hair was a brown colour now (this photograph was accompanied by a cut curl that had been sellotaped down next to it. John stroked it carefully, revelling in its softness); Sherlock being given a package that soon revealed to be a violin; Sherlock smacking Mycroft around the head with his violin bow; Sherlock covered head to toe in paint; Sixth birthday, and John recognised the same little boy and girl who had been present at the previous birthday party. This time they were trying to eat chocolate coins with chopsticks; Sherlock in his school uniform, scowling at the camera; Sherlock on stage at his school, violin held aloft, with a spotlight shining on him; Sherlock being brave as Mycroft put a plaster on his cut knee; Sherlock at his Seventh birthday party, being given a kiss by a relative, and his disgusted face; Sherlock squeezing a pet cat too tightly, so it's eyeballs popped out.

John realised he was opening sobbing. And he was barely half way through the book. Each photograph told a little bit more about his best friend.

Mrs Holmes laid a hand on his, and he jumped, hastily wiping away the tears.

"Put this in the DVD player for me?" she asked, rummaging around her bag, and pulling out a DVD which had "First Performance" written on it in a black pen.

He nodded, swallowing thickly, and stood to put it into the DVD player, turning on the TV for the first time in months.

The DVD started, and he pressed play.

It was very blurry, and rushed, and there was a lot of crackling.

"_No, dear, you need to press the other button."_

"_Like this?"_

The camera zoomed out and they got a wide shot of a living room and Sherlock standing before them with his violin in hand.

"_Okay, I've got it now."_

Mrs Holmes was holding the video camera steadily now. _"Hello Sherlock. Are you going to play for us?"_

Sherlock fidgeted with his violin for a second, before saying in a very soft voice,

"_I'm going to play my favourite tune, Mummy." _John detected a very slight lisp, and felt his heart melt.

"_Which tune is that, darling?"_

Sherlock mumbled shyly, rubbing his toe into the floor.

"_Okay, darling. Can I hear it then?"_

Sherlock nodded, and lifted the violin under his chin, and raised the bow.

Some indecipherable sounds came out, due to the poor quality of the video, but soon enough John worked it out. He was playing the Doctor Who theme tune.

John could barely breathe through his crying.

Once he had finished, Sherlock grinned into his chest, hiding his violin behind his back. His parents were clapping and cheering, and John got a glimpse of Mycroft walking in the background.

A cat slinked past, and Sherlock instantly grabbed it, dropping his instrument. _"Look! It's Tom Baker!"_

John grinned at Sherlock's Doctor Who fascination, as he shook the cat on the screen.

"_No, sweetie, don't do that!" _Mrs Holmes scolded, and a hand came from beyond the camera to save the poor creature.

Sherlock smiled and ran towards his father, the camera swooping to keep him in sight. He hugged his father around the knees, and then the footage went blank.

There was silence in the flat, apart from John's gasps and sniffling.

"I'm not mad, John," Mrs Holmes whispered again. "I know what they say."

John faced her and smiled at her, knowing how patronising it seemed.

"I'm not mad. And my son isn't dead," she whispered.

John suddenly didn't want her in his house anymore, but couldn't explain why. He was having a conversation with a madwoman. Sherlock was _dead. _That was the end of it. The brilliant man was dead. Killed. Gone. Forever. And the ramblings of a crazy person couldn't bring him back. It was unnecessary to ask her to leave anyway, because she suddenly stood up.

"Keep the photos. It seems you need his memory more than I do," she said, more aggressively than he'd ever seen her. "I'd have thought if anyone, it would have been you who would believe me. Believe in _him._"

She shuffled towards the door, stopping and turning back.

"He's not dead, Dr Watson. He would laugh at you all now, if he saw how stupid you all are being. You all _see, _but you just don't _observe!"_

And with that she shuffled off, shutting the door behind her.

John sighed and slumped backwards. _It must be the genius, _he thought gravely. _Turns you insane after a while. Brain just can't cope._

He flicked through the rest of the photo album. Sherlock seemed to have a growth spurt at about twelve, and the whole sullen attitude and floppy hair thing was starting to develop. John could only put it down to a lack of Mycroft, who would have disappeared to University at this time.

The album stopped at Sherlock's first day of university. It was a grainy Polaroid picture of him in front of a very Oxford-y looking building. He had taken it himself. John flipped it over, where, in Sherlock's familiar scrawl, were the words "For Mother, you can put this in your infernal album. Love Sherlock".

John closed the album, and hugged it close to his chest.

He closed his eyes, and tears seeped through his eyelids.

* * *

><p>He had been to Tescos that day. He had had to pick up some bread and milk and other bits and bobs to fill the kitchen. He didn't know why he let that happen- let the kitchen go stark before he filled it again. It meant he had to lug two very heavy shopping bags with him down Baker Street.<p>

He squinted up the road (he really needed to go to the opticians, his eyesight was going with his old age) and saw his door not a hundred yards away, Speedy's cafe customers sitting outside in the vain hope the seedy sunshine might reach them. In actual fact, it was rather nippy, even if it was clear skies.

John continued to amble down the road, puffing slightly, when someone knocked into him as they ran to catch a cab.

"Oh god, sorry!" they called out, but did not stop.

His wallet had fallen out of his coat pocket- _not good, John! You ought to get a better place to put that!_

He transferred both shopping bags into one hand, that one hand protesting a lot, and reached down to get it. A gust of wind caught it, and the photograph he had taken out of an album three years previously of a young man outside of an Oxford university fluttered out.

"Bollocks!" he cursed, and lunged for it.

A white hand came from nowhere and picked it up for him before it could escape.

"Thanks, mate," John said, his back creaking as he straightened up, wallet hastily thrown into one of the shopping bags. "Wouldn't want to lose that."

He looked up at the guy who had saved his photograph.

"Hmm, I'm surprised this hasn't completely faded, after all this time."

The shopping bags fell to the floor, cabbages, digestive biscuits and toilet paper all rolling away around him.

John staggered back, staring aghast into the face of Sherlock Holmes.

"I've finally gone mad," John squeaked, before everything went black and he fell backwards.

When he came round, he was on the sofa in his home. His shoes had been taken off, and the blanket was spread over him.

He rubbed his head, tasting brandy on his lips, then realised the tall figure of a dead man was standing nearby.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he rasped.

"John, are you okay?"

The wearied tones of his best friend replied.

John sat up and got a good look at the apparition.

"Oh dear, and I told myself I wouldn't resort to drugs," he muttered, disappointed in himself.

"John, I'm not a hallucination."

"That's what all hallucinations say," John mumbled, rubbing his palmed into his eyes.

"John, please, understand me. I'm not dead. I promise. I faked my own death."

That got John. He looked up sharply, and took in the angular planes and mad black hair.

Black hair.

"Sherlock?" he whispered again. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, it is," Sherlock replied. He was wearing a tattered coat and trousers far too big for him.

John stood and took a step towards the man, who opened his arms in invitation, a pleading smile on his face.

John drew together all his energy, and brought his fist hard against Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock recoiled, sprawling onto his back with the impact, and he emitted a groan.

"So definitely not a hallucination, _you fucking prick!" _John yelled, standing with his fists clenched, and glaring down at the man on the floor.

"I suppose I had that coming," Sherlock admitted, sitting up and rubbing his jaw.

"_YOU INFERNAL BASTARD! WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?"_

John exploded like he had never exploded before. This was three times as angry as he had been that night they had returned from the pool, rubble still in each other's hair, scrapes and cuts only vaguely registering amongst all the passion and emotions. They had never talked about that night...

Sherlock stood up, and grasped John's hands. "Let me explain, John!"

"You _better _fucking explain, you immense fuckwit, or I swear to god, I'll _beat_ you into a _pulp_!" John raged.

Sherlock seemed a little lost, so he reached into his pocket, and withdrew the Polaroid picture. "Where did you get this?"

John pointed to the shelf which was dedicated to Sherlocky stuff. All his mother's photo albums, all the home videos. All the certificates and trophies and musical scores and notebooks and careful annotations of experiements. The violin, kept tuned and polished. They were all there.

"Why did you keep it all?" Sherlock asked, a little amazed.

"Because I thought you were _dead." _John said harshly.

Then he gasped, and the tangle of emotions he had felt for the last three years decided to combine and fall on him all in one second. He had thought Sherlock was dead. But he wasn't. Yesterday, and the day before, John had been grieving. Now all of that was void.

He's alive!

_My son isn't dead, Dr Watson._

John grabbed at Sherlock's head and pulled him down into a bone crushing hug, pretty aware that he was strangling the poor man, but not caring, because he could feel the steady thrum of a pulse in his neck, and he could hear Sherlock's breathing, and he could feel warm hands grasp John's waist, before he reciprocated the embrace, and it was two men hugging it out after three years of sadness, and depression, and hopelessness, and fear.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered. "I had to keep you safe."

"I'm sorry," John returned. "For hitting you in the face."

Sherlock snorted, and let go. John reluctantly did the same. "And for not listening to your mother."

Sherlock didn't ask. He was busy sweeping his eyes over a face that he had forgotten in three years of bitter warfare against the biggest crime syndicate of the century.

John stared up at his friend's face- the one he had taken to memorising, and the one he could now draw at any age, at any time.

For he had Sherlock Holmes memorised, from infancy to adulthood, from past to present, from the beginning, and now hopefully, to the end.

**Bloody hell.**

**Okay, I thought it might be a nice way to say goodbye.**

**Please use this opportunity to tell me to fuck off for being **

**The worst updater in all of history.**

**The most uncommitted writer ever. I've actually had THOUSANDS of words worth of written chapters which I just didn't get round to uploading. So yeah.**

**The most un-thorough, lazy, superlative-using whore writer ever. And for letting that get in the way of my writing. And for making my writing irregular according to my emotions.**

**For overusing the word "and" and "said", she said whilst smacking herself on the forehead.**

**So yes. Live long and prosper, my lovelies. You're all fantastic for sticking with me for so long.**

**Love Millie x**


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